


I Owe It All To You

by MartianMadness66



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe - Teachers, F/M, M/M, The beatles never existed, art teacher john, john is divorced, linda is still a photographer, music teacher paul, twice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-18
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2020-10-21 02:10:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20685764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartianMadness66/pseuds/MartianMadness66
Summary: John is the new Art Teacher at a posh grammar school in Liverpool who ends up falling head over heels for the music teacher across the hall. That's it. Really.





	1. New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, here's a new fic! I'm currently attempting to create an update schedule so that I can update ALL of my fics at reasonable intervals! Wish me luck! I hope you guys like this story, it's been in my brain for a while (and, as with most things in my brain, I haven't really gotten around to writing it until recently) so here's to hoping it turns out good! 
> 
> Title Song - I Owe It All To You by Paul McCartney

If you had asked John when he was twenty years old what he imagined himself doing in twenty years it would have been something awesome like "being a rockstar" or "being an artist", something where you can leave your mark on the world and live to tell about all of your wild adventures.

  
What he wouldn't have believed was that he would have actually started on that trajectory, only to end up back in Liverpool with two divorces and two kids under his belt and a new job at a fancy school uptown where he would be teaching art to a bunch of snobby kids in uniforms.

  
  
He bounced his leg, bored out of his mind (note: NOT nervous AT ALL). He'd been sitting here for what had to have been at least twenty minutes, waiting to get the grand tour of the school, meet all the other teachers and FINALLY begin setting up his classroom. Jesus, how could everyone be so busy? School hadn't even started yet, for christ's sake.

  
  
He looked up as someone came into the room. "John Lennon?" The guy asked, smiling slightly. John stood up and wiped his hands on his pants (when did his hands get so clammy?)

  
  
"Hey," John said, extending his hand and smiling back as much as he could make himself. He couldn't exactly say this was living the dream for him. "And you are?"

  
  
"Richard Starkey, but you can just call me Ritchie. Everyone else does," Ritchie said with a smile, taking his hand.

John glanced down at Ritchie's hand. "So what's with all the rings?" He asked, trying to maintain casual in the face of what had to be close to 50 rings.

  
Ritchie laughed softly. "What can I say? I like 'em!"

  
  
John grinned. "Alright then, lead on, ringmaster," he said, gesturing down the hall with a theatric bow.

  
  
Ritchie took him on a tour of the school, got him familiar with the layout, rules, system, and, finally, showed him his room.

  
  
"This is where you'll be all year," Ritchie said as John scoped the room out. It was bigger than he expected, but still not BIG. It was bare and sad, nothing on the walls, tables and chairs pushed to the far side of the room.

  
  
John wandered around, looking for anything interesting about the room - anything at all.

  
  
"Are you nervous?" Ritchie asked from the doorway as John examined one of the small cupboards. "Not really. Art isn't exactly a grueling subject," he responded.

  
  
"Paul, hey!" John looked over at the mention of a name that wasn't his. There was a tall dark-haired man standing in front of the door across the hall. He was holding a large box and was struggling with the keys in his hands. At the mention of his name, he jerked his head around. When his eyes found Ritchie he gave a small, tired smile.

  
  
"Hey, Ritch," he said. John watched as Ritchie went over and took the keys from Paul.

  
  
"I got this, mate, you've got your hands full. Are the kids gonna help you out this year?" Ritchie asked as he unlocked the door, swinging it wide enough that the both of them could walk in. John didn't feel like intruding - well, he DID, but he wouldn't do that. That guy - Paul? - looked like he'd been through the wringer and John didn't feel like adding to that right now.

  
  
He went about his business inspecting the classroom, enjoying every scratch on the cabinets and dent in the tables - the only signs of life in the bare room.

  
  
"'Scuse me, who are you?"

  
  
John turned around - again - to see a little girl standing in the doorway, a box of what seemed to be various instrument accessories - mutes, capos, and rosin - in her hands. She looked about 9 or 10, her thin blonde hair pulled back in a braid.

  
  
John held her gaze. "John Lennon. Who are you?"

  
She stared back. "Stella McCartney. My dad's the music teacher. Are you the new art teacher?"

  
  
John leaned forward over his knees where he was crouched on the floor. "Yeah, I am."

  
  
Stella adjusted the box in her arms, never breaking eye contact with John. "Are you nice?" She asked. John almost laughed. Almost. There was something about the way this little girl was staring at him that made him sure that laughing would end poorly.

  
  
"Usually. Unless I have reason to be mean. Are you nice?" This was the strangest battle of wills he'd ever engaged in, and he'd been married to Yoko for 13 years.

  
  
Stella held her chin up. "Yes, I am." She paused for a moment, watching John with an exaggerated contemplative look before she seemed to decide something. "In fact, I'm so nice that I'll give you a present." She put the box down and then fished around inside it before she pulled out a pretty obviously handmade beaded necklace. She walked over to John and gestured for him to bow his head, which he did with a small, amused smile. Once she slid it over his head, she stepped back and admired her work.

  
  
"There," she said. "As good luck. And maybe it'll help you be nice when you feel like being mean." She was smiling now, all hostility gone from her little baby face. John found himself smiling a little wider. He looked down at the beaded necklace and then back at Stella. "It's really pretty," he told her.

  
  
She beamed, then put her hands on her hips proudly. "Good! I'm gonna be a fashion designer!"

  
  
John laughed. "Well, with a start like this, I'd say that's gonna be no problem for you!"

  
  
"Stella, where'd you go?"

  
  
She turned around and hollered back, "I'm in the other room, talking to the new teacher!" A moment later Paul, Ritchie, and another little girl walked in.

  
  
Stella ran to Paul. "Daddy, look, I found someone to give my necklace to! This is John Lennon, he's the new art teacher! Doesn't he look great?" Paul looked over at John and raised an eyebrow mock-critically. "Hm," he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin as he moved to circle John.

  
  
"It does look good - very good. The colors blend with his wardrobe quite seamlessly, and the artistry with which these beads were threaded through their string? Brilliant!" He turned back to Stella and gave her a small bow. "10/10, my dear!" Stella smiled wide, proud, and then started laughing as the other little girl, a taller, slightly older girl with dark hair tackled her in a hug. Paul turned back to John where he'd been crouched in amused fascination, watching, and smiled apologetically. "Sorry about that and thanks for playing along," he said kindly. "I'm Paul McCartney, I'm the music teacher here. The little blonde girl is my daughter Stella and the other one is my daughter Mary. Sorry if Stella was bothering you."

  
  
John stood up. "Nah, she was fine. Sweet kid," he said, crossing his arms. He felt a twinge of yearning as he watched the girls chase each other. He missed Sean.

  
  
Paul smiled. "Yeah, she is. Gets it from her mum." John glanced at him and thought, for just a second, he saw a flash of something heavy in the man's face. But a second later he was turning to John with a bright smile. "Need help with your room? Ritchie and I can work it with you if you like."

  
  
John glanced around the room and decided that yeah, he probably did need some help.

  
  
"Yeah, that'd be great, actually."

  
  
The rest of the morning was spent retrieving things from John's car and decorating his room. He found he really liked Paul and Ritchie. Paul, in particular, had a unique pull for him, and John had to tell himself firmly that the man was married to a woman (with whom he'd had 4 kids, he'd) - he probably wouldn't be very open to the advances of a two-time male divorcee.

  
  
Still, though. Paul was gorgeous and kind and funny and seeing him with his kids was both baffling and endearing. He was clearly a family man, something John had had to fight hard to be for years.

  
  
By the time they were done, he had both Paul and Ritchie's numbers and an excitement building alongside his anxiety for the first day of school the following week.


	2. Can't Help Falling In Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter 2 my dudes, let's do this

First day. John was watching kids pour into the building from the window in his classroom. Soon those kids would be there, and he’d have to teach them – he’d have to stand there and pretend to know what the fuck he was doing. Jesus _Christ._

He looked over at the sound of a knock on his open door. Paul was in the doorway, cheeky grin on his face. “Nervous?” he asked.

John scoffed and folded his arms over his chest. “No. Why the hell would I be nervous?” he threw back, but he was already staring out the window again, shoulders tense with nerves.

Paul joined him at the window. “It’s alright, I was freaked out my first day, too,” he said, looking out the window, hands pushed into his pockets. John glanced at him, at the dark rings under his eyes, the sagging of his cheeks. “You’re still nervous, aren’t you?” John asked, a shaky, teasing smile on his lips.

Paul smiled sheepishly. “That obvious, huh?”

He looked back out the window. “First day nerves never really go away, they just get easier to manage,” he said, voice bizarrely heavy, given that they were just talking about _school._

John looked at him, concerned. “Are you okay?” he asked cautiously.

When Paul turned to him again, he was smiling. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just like to be cryptic sometimes, keep you on your toes, y’know?” he said, teasing.

“Oh, shove off,” John laughed, bumping his shoulder. They both looked up at the sound of kids in the hallway. Paul shrugged and said, “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

John watched him walk to the doorway, but just before he left, he turned back and said, with the biggest, goofiest smile, “And good luck, Mr. Lennon!”

John couldn’t wipe the grin off his face if he tried.

***

Turns out, kids weren’t all bad. They were even _fun_ sometimes. And even though it had taken him a period or two to get into his groove, once he did, he had a great time. The kids all seemed to like him, and all seemed to look forward to his class, which was a relief. His day had only gotten better when Paul had peeked his head in during the middle of third period to see how everything was going. As soon as Paul had shown his face, the kids were crazy levels of excitement.

“Mr. McCartney, Mr. McCartney! You’re back!” a girl named Chrissy exclaimed, running to give him a hug. Paul had laughed, gave her a quick hug and then sent her back to her seat. John thought that was interesting. Had Paul been gone?

He asked when they took their lunch break because if there was one thing John was known for, it was his goddamn _tactlessness_.

“Where were you?” John asked as Paul sat beside him and Ritchie in the teacher’s lounge, warmed up pasta in a reusable dish in his hands.

“Uh, at the microwave, warming me pasta up?” he asked, confused.

“No, last year. The kids said you were gone the last couple months of school,” John said, eyeing Paul curiously.

Understanding flashed in Paul’s eyes and he glanced at Ritchie, who, John saw, was frozen holding his sandwich, eyes wide.

“What?” John asked, irritated at being left out of the loop – even if he was in the middle of his first day on the job and had only known these two for a week.

Paul squirmed a little, twisting his fork in his pasta absentmindedly.

“Uh, well,” Paul started, biting his lip. He took a deep breath and then looked at John. “My wife passed away last spring. Breast cancer. Took some time off to be with her before… well, y’know.”

John felt like he’d been punched in the gut. “Shit,” he said, sitting back in shock. “I’m sorry.”

Paul waved him off. “You didn’t know. And I should have realized the kids would talk about it,” he said, nonchalant, but John could see through it. He clearly just didn’t want to talk about it.

Ritchie finally put his untouched sandwich down. “Have the kids been asking about it a lot?” he asked gently.

Paul shook his head. “Most of ‘em already know, so I’ve just gotten a lot of sad looks and some cards. They mean well, though.”

Paul took a bite and then glanced at John. “How are classes going, then?”

Ah, there we go. Conversation changed. Paul didn’t seem like the type to want to talk about his feelings.

“They’ve actually been pretty good. The kids are great,” he said, grinning.

Paul beamed. “Aren’t they?” he said, a proud smile gracing his lips.

“Yeah, that’s only because you guys teach the arts. Try teaching maths and then see how great they are,” Ritchie grumbled, but as soon as he caught Paul’s eye he started laughing.

“Yeah, that’s right, laugh it up, Mr. Popular. God, Ritch, you’re who everyone wants for maths,” Paul said, lightly shoving Ritchie’s shoulder. Ritchie looked proud. “You’re damn right, son, and you should say it,” he said, jabbing at Paul with his sandwich.

John rolled his eyes. These two fucking dorks, man. They’d be the death of him.

***

John had had a good day, all things considered. Learning about Paul’s wife had sucked (even more so because his sick, twisted mind said that Paul was available now which was _horrible-_), but all the kids seemed to love Paul, which he thought was beautiful.

Once he was finished packing his stuff up, he went across the hall to see if Paul was still there. His door was cracked open, so he knocked quietly as he came in. Paul was sitting on his desk, guitar in hand, playing softly. Paul didn’t seem to have heard him, so he leaned in the doorway and listened for a while. God, he really was beautiful – soft, doe eyes half-closed in relaxation, the way his long fingers curved over the neck of the guitar, dark hair lying in gentle waves over his forehead. But John could see the effects of his grief, too. The grey hairs standing out in the light, the sagging of his cheeks, the bags under his eyes. This was a man who’d recently lost his wife and was now the sole parent of four kids. John didn’t know the ages of all of them, but the two he’d met had been pretty young. He wondered if Paul was really as self-assured and collected as he seemed, or if he was covering up – maybe for his kids, or maybe for himself.

John became aware of someone beside him, a young girl, maybe 17. She was watching Paul, too, and normally John would have suspected that she had a crush, but that didn’t seem to fit. She looked too serious - too sad. John looked up again when Paul’s lovely voice joined his playing, soft and gentle. John felt tears pricking his eyes and blinked them away furiously. Just because the music was beautiful didn’t mean he needed to become a teary mess.

When Paul finally finished, he sat there quietly, chin resting on the guitar, eyes closed. The girl tugged at John’s arm and pulled him into the hallway.

“Pretend you didn’t see it,” she demanded softly, and then she gestured for him to walk with her into the classroom.

“Hey, dad,” she said, walking towards Paul. Paul looked up, smiling gently.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he glanced behind her. “Hey, John.”

John had a very hard time pretending that he hadn’t just had a spiritual experience listening to Paul play. He cleared his throat. “Hey,” he gestured at the guitar Paul was playing. “Do you play?”

He felt the girl staring at him but tried to ignore it.

“’m not the music teacher for nothing, am I?” he teased, grinning.

“Alright, alright, I get it, dumb question. Just thought you played something fancy-like. I can picture you, all posh-like –“ John mimed playing the violin while Paul laughed.

“Yeah, no. I don’t play any of those instruments. Honestly, I hardly read sheet music. The only real merit I have is that I can conduct pretty well,” he said. John gaped.

“What the hell do you teach, then, if not how to read sheet music or how to, y’know, _play?_” John asked, both amazed and baffled.

“Okay, okay, _hang on – _I _do_ teach them to play. I can teach the basic grips of the instruments and the basics of sheet music, but I don’t focus on those parts because I don’t think they’re that important. And –“ Paul said, cutting John off before he could say anything, “if you came to our concerts, you’d see I was right.”

“Hey, mate, I never said I thought those were important things. I just thought they were part of the job,” he said, throwing his hands up in surrender.

Paul shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “Yeah, well, you may be right. But I’ve done okay, I think.”

“I think so, too,” Heather said from the other side of the room, eyes glued to a book in her lap. Paul startled, looking at Heather with wide eyes. “Oh, God, I’m sorry! I haven’t introduced you two! Heather, this is John Lennon, our new art teacher. John this is my daughter, Heather,” he said, prompting Heather to look up. She looked at John with an unreadable expression.

“Nice to meet you, sir,” she said politely, if a bit monotone.

John smiled awkwardly. “Ditto,” he said.

Paul seemed to sense the weird tension between the two and cleared his throat. He gestured towards John’s bag. “You headed home, then?” he asked.

John shifted the bag on his shoulder. “Yeah. Long day. Good day,” he added quickly. “But long. I’m knackered.”

Paul smiled gently, standing up and putting his guitar carefully in its case. “Same here, mate. I’ve got to be heading off, too. Got to pick up the little ones from their uncle’s.” He picked the case up and slung it over his back. John thought that shouldn’t be as hot as it was. Paul turned back to John. “We can walk out together if you like?” he said, lovely smile on his stupid fucking face – it’s like he knew exactly what he was ding to John, just to torture him.

John smiled weakly. “Sure, yeah. Why not?” he said, following Paul and his daughter down the hall.

John yawned, eyes drooping with exhaustion. God, he could’ve passed out right there in the hallway.

“Tomorrow won’t be as bad, don’t worry. Even if the schedule will take some getting used to,” Paul offered.

“I don’t know, mate. I’m not really a morning person,” John grumbled. Paul snorted.

“Believe me, you’re not alone there. I wouldn’t describe myself as a morning person, either, but you get used to it,” Paul said, joyfully patting John on the back.

“God, I hope I don’t get as peppy as you,” he shot back, realizing a little too late that Paul might not get his humor. But when he glanced wearily at Paul, it was to find him grinning.

“Me too. You’d never be able to make it look as good as I do, so why try?” he said, and John was shocked to hear a soft huff of laughter from Paul’s daughter.

“Oy, I resent that. I could make a valiant effort,” John shot back.

“Please, you’d look like a happy corpse.”

John glared at Paul, but before he could speak, Paul was patting his shoulder.

“Anyway, we’re headed this way,” he said, gesturing down the street, away from the parking lot. “See you tomorrow, John!”

“See you,” John said, heart beating a little too rapidly. He could still feel Paul’s hand on his shoulder even though he and his daughter were well down the street. God, _shit, he was blushing, wasn’t he? _

Fuck. Two days with this peppy, gorgeous jackass and he was already falling harder than ever. He shook himself, hoping that he could get Paul’s laugh out of his brain. He couldn’t go for someone who had so much on his plate already. It felt wrong. But say, by some miracle, Paul felt the same about him - would John even want that life? Paul had four kids – John had barely been able to handle one. And as much as he loved Julian, he wasn’t exactly a case in exemplary fathers.

He tried to talk himself down the entire drive home, but when he fell asleep that night, he still dreamt of doe eyes and gentle fingers on the neck of a guitar.


	3. Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeet look at me finally getting to things I need to do!

Honestly, John couldn’t figure out why all the other teachers complained about students. Or, well – to be fair, they only ever complained about a handful of them. But those were the ones John didn’t understand complaining about. They were a little rowdy, but nothing unmanageable. Not for him, anyway. And, apparently, not for Paul.

Paul.

Hnn.

The students were all working on an art project (John having found that he could actually get them focused and quiet if they were able to listen to their own music – even Jonah was sat at the table, though his leg wouldn’t stop jiggling) so John was alone with his thoughts.

And it seems they always went back to Paul.

It was like some evil all-knowing entity had placed the perfect, most tantalizing man they could just out of John’s reach. To say he was frustrated would be an understatement. They were about a month into the school year so far, and most nights John would end up shamefully tossing himself off to thoughts of that gorgeous fucking face – the perfect doe eyes (he could just picture them hooded with arousal); his soft, silken hair (he imagined it brushing his cheek, or haloed on the pillow, or fisted in his hand); his large, gentle hands (which he imagined holding down, imagined linking their fingers together). It was getting to be a problem, honestly. But Paul had no idea. He remained Mr. Charming. He’d even taken to bringing John a coffee in the morning. They’d sit in John’s room for a half-hour or so before class started and talk over their respective drinks (Paul was more often than not inclined to tea). Every time Paul peeked in his door, John’s heart would skip a beat.

John was well and truly fucked. Royally. Painfully.

“Mr. Lennon?”

John looked up from the messy scribble he’d been working on absentmindedly, jerked roughly from his thoughts. And there was poor Jonah, shifting from foot, unable to stay still for even a moment.

“What?” John asked, maybe a little snappish from the way the kid flinched.

“Sorry, what’s wrong? Do you need help with something?” he tried again, softening his voice.

Jonah’s eyes were everywhere, flickering from John to the kids at the far table to the windows to the ceiling, but he managed to get across what he was struggling with, words strangely coherent despite his flighty appearance.

“I’m not sure I really understood what you wanted us to do and I don’t think I’ve done it right,” he said, holding up his sketch.

John took it and laid it out on his desk, carefully looking over the drawing. It was actually very good, John was pleased to see. Despite that, though, he could see what Jonah meant. He definitely hadn’t understood the assignment.

“Okay, I see what’s going on,” John said. “The goal was that you’d learn to use different colors for shading, and the differing appeals of those colors for shading. You’ve only used blacks and browns, here.” He glanced up at Jonah’s pale face.

“Do I have to start over?” he asked quietly.

“No,” John smiled. “This is actually really great. You can keep working on this instead, and we’ll see about you using color in a different assignment, okay?”

Jonah’s smile could have lit the whole classroom. He mock-saluted John and then was bouncing back to his seat.

John breathed a soft laugh and returned to his sketch. This whole teaching thing was starting to make sense to him.

***

John was so absorbed in his drawing, that he hardly heard the bell for lunch, or all the kids leaving. He had to get the eyes right. Those stupid fucking eyes and that stupid fucking nose and his stupid fucking mouth and his stupid fucking cheeks –

Frustrated, John threw the drawing on his desk and leaned back in his chair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes under his glasses. He couldn’t get any of Paul’s stupid, beautiful features right. And to make matters worse, he’d done his drawing in _red _when Paul was clearly fucking _green _–

“Cor, can’t be that bad, can it?”

John jumped, throwing his glasses in his panic to cover his drawing as quickly as possible because holy shit _Paul _–

“Christ, John, didn’t mean to scare you,” Paul said or _tried_ to say, not that he could get anything out really, with all his _laughing_.

John couldn’t see for shit, couldn’t even really which paper on his desk was the fucking drawing, so he was just grabbing random books and papers and moving them to the center where he thought the drawing was and he was red now he fucking knew it.

“Chris, Paul, warn a guy before you just burst in like that,” he wheezed, panic dulling slightly, and then there was a hand in his face.

John squinted at it, baffled. “What’re you doing, then?” he asked, and then Paul was collapsing in laughter again. Before he could retort, his glasses were gently placed on his nose, his sight magically returned to him.

And then he wished it wasn’t.

Because the first sight he was graced with was Paul’s flushed cheeks, eyes alight with laughter. He was beyond beautiful and it took every ounce of thin willpower John possessed not to jump him right there. And then Paul glanced down. John followed his gaze to the only thing that remained uncovered on his desk – _the goddamn fucking drawing_. Fuck his life.

Paul’s cheeks seemed even redder than before, his eyes wide – with shock? Repulsion? John wanted to sink into a hole and die. But of course, John could never keep his goddamn mouth shut.

“Sorry, I was teaching the kids to shade with color today and I needed a subject and I know you best so far, so you were the first person that came to mind. It’s not great ‘cause I can’t for the life of me get anything about your face right, but, y’know. Yeah. Sorry.” John couldn’t even bring himself to look at Paul. Instead, he was staring out the window across the room, cheeks embarrassingly on fire.

His chest constricted painfully when he saw Paul slowly grab the drawing out of the corner of his eye. After a painful moment of silence in which John was desperately trying not to shove Paul away, Paul finally let out a soft breath.

“Is this how you see me?” He asked, voice hardly above a whisper.

John had no idea what the fuck that meant. When he looked up to say so, though, he couldn’t. Paul looked – _God. _Paul’s eyes were wet, skin pale everywhere but his cheeks and eyes. He looked like he was seeing a ghost.

“Are you okay?” John asked quietly, gently placing a hand on Paul’s arm. He pretended it didn’t hurt when Paul flinched away. And, despite how scary it was, he was also terrifyingly fascinated by how completely Paul’s mask slipped back into place. Paul put the drawing back on the desk.

“It’s good,” he said, voice rough. Paul cleared his throat and started again. “It’s good. Thanks.”

And then he was gone.

John sat back, stunned. He felt like he’d really just fucked up and he couldn’t figure out why. Was it too invasive, drawing Paul? He hadn’t drawn anything _scandalous_. He picked up the drawing. He’d been sketching Paul reclined in his desk chair holding his guitar. Admittedly, Paul hadn’t known John had been watching him, but it wasn’t… was that creepy? Shit, it was creepy, wasn’t it? Fuck. He dropped his head into his hands, feeling shaky and stupid.

He knew he’d fuck this up somehow.

***

After he’d tucked the kids in, Paul went quietly to his room and sat on his bed, staring at the closet that still had all of Linda’s things in it. He couldn’t bring himself to clean it out. And, God, especially not all of her photographs. He was opening the door before he could really register what was happening. He pulled one of her boxes of photographs out and sat down on the floor to sift through it. He teared up, remembering every occasion for every photograph, but he was searching for one photo in particular. And then he found it. He slowly pulled a photo out of the box, his heart shattering as he stared at it. It was the first photo of himself that he’d seen of Linda’s and he’d never forget how he felt when he first saw it.

_“Hey, Lin, can I grab you for a sec?” he’d asked, popping his head into the room Linda had claimed for her photography. _

_She glanced up briefly, and then returned to her prints. “In just a minute, if that’s okay,” she’d murmured. And then, “You can wait in here if you want.”_

_Paul had gone in, walked slowly around the room. He had adored her photography from the first moment he’d seen it, and honestly, hadn’t thought he would ever tire of it. He had stopped behind her, looking over her shoulder to see what she had been working on, and then he’d frozen._

_Slowly, slowly, he had picked up a photograph. It was of himself when they’d been on holiday in Portugal, when he’d asked her to marry him. He was relaxing on a beach chair, eyes closed, playing guitar. That was the gut-wrenching moment that he’d realized that Linda was absolutely in love with him. _

_“Is this how you see me?” He’d asked, unable to hide the hitch in his voice, and when he’d looked at her, she’d been smiling, the most tender, gentle smile Paul had ever seen. _

_“Yeah,” Linda had said. “Are you really just figuring that out?”_

Paul curled over the photo, heart shattering violently all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it, let me know if you did or didn't!!! Lots of love and thanks for reading, guys!


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